the cracked plastic and metal fragments into the small, sticky bin by the bed and took his remaining burner phones out of the backpack – only three left now – unwrapping the nearest one and inserting the new SIM card. He plugged it in to charge.
He emptied the rest of her purse. Credit card, debit card, stamps, gym membership, organ donor card, Costa loyalty card, a few receipts. No driver’s licence. No family photos in the little plastic window; no snapshots tucked into any of the pockets. He pressed the soft leather between his fingers, feeling for anything metal sewed into the lining. Picked up his knife and ripped into it, tearing open the lining and separating all the pieces until he was satisfied there were no GPS devices inside. He pocketed the cash and threw the rest into the bin. Better to burn it, to dispose of it properly, but there was no time for that.
The knife had a custom-made sheath that strapped to the inside of his left forearm, so it was concealed but could be drawn quickly. He stood up and strapped it to his arm and put his bomber jacket on over the top.
Finally, he took out a folded picture from his own wallet. He kept nothing digitally, no images, moving from one burner phone to the next without leaving a footprint behind. It was as close to off-grid as he could get, but he hadn’t been able to give up this picture, the printed image already starting to wear and crease where he had folded and unfolded it so many times. He allowed himself a moment to stare at the picture, his eyes travelling over her face, her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. He had to get to her before it was too late. Before anyone realised who she was. What she was.
He had found her once. He could find her again.
And this time, he would do what needed to be done.
19
DI Gilbourne
Gilbourne took a long drag on his cigarette, looking out over the street lights on Northolt Road.
He liked it up here after hours. The city was asleep, laid out beneath him. The streets quiet, the night air cold and sharp in his lungs, the good people of the city asleep in their beds. He did some of his best thinking up here when it was like this. He was on the fourth-floor fire escape, the door wedged open with a fire extinguisher dragged in from the hallway. It was the only place in the whole building where you could smoke without setting off the fire alarm or having one of the young snowflakes coughing and covering their mouth. The chief had forbidden officers from smoking out the front of any station, anywhere that was visible to the public – it didn’t send the right message, apparently, to have cops smoking when there was police work to do – so the few remaining smokers congregated at the rear of the building in a scrubby patch of gravel next to the vehicle compound. He didn’t mind making small talk with the other twenty-a-day pariahs, but sometimes he liked to have a few minutes alone with his vices of choice.
They were a dying breed. Wasn’t that the truth.
He checked the corridor behind him – clear – and fished a couple of pills out of the little Ziploc bag tucked into his wallet, swallowing them down dry. As he was putting his wallet back he heard footsteps behind him and Holt came out holding two cups of dark coffee in identical white mugs. He handed one to Gilbourne and stepped back to the other side of the fire escape, as far away from the smoke as he could get.
‘What do you reckon then, boss? About her?’
Gilbourne took another drag on his cigarette, holding in the smoke for a moment. He watched as a lone fox emerged below from behind a row of parked cars. It slinked from one side of the street to the other, its bushy tail held low to the ground, hunched as if ready for attack or escape. Gilbourne followed its progress, elbows on the steel railing of the fire escape, cigarette smoke curling up into the night sky. He had always admired them, these secret city dwellers who had adapted so well to new surroundings. They lived and thrived, bred, roamed and hunted in one of the busiest cities in the world – and they did it largely unseen, under the radar of